WHEN the bulb of the moon with white fire fills And dead leaves crackle under the feet, When men roll kegs to the cider mills And chestnuts roast on every street; When the night sky glows like a hollow shell Of lustered emerald and pearl, The kilted cricket knows too well His doom. His tiny bagpipes skirl. Quavering under the polished stars In stubble, thicket, and frosty copse The cricket blows a few choked bars, And puts away his pipe -- and stops. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NO EXEMPTION FOR TOURISTS by KAREN SWENSON THE DOVE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR CORYDON - A PASTORAL by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE BALLAD OF ORISKANY by OBADIAH CYRUS AURINGER THE QUAKER POET; VERSES ON SEEING MYSELF SO DESIGNATED by BERNARD BARTON A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 21 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT IRELAND'S VENGEANCE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT EPIGRAM TO DON ANTONIO, KING OF PORTUGAL by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |